


That'd Be Great

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [28]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Accidents, Blood Loss, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27245161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS.Accidents| Hunting Season | MuggedHe's so distracted by his racing thoughts that the commotion on a nearby boat doesn't even register. At least, not until there's a stabbing pain in his thigh and he's flying off the pier into the water below.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	That'd Be Great

"I'm surprised you didn't send Dani or JT for this," Malcolm grins as they walk along the marina. He's not actually surprised at all. Gil's been trapped in his office under a mountain of paperwork for nearly a week and Malcolm could tell by the way his shoulders slumped a little more every day that he was aching for a chance to get back out in the field.

Meeting with their witness to ask some follow-up questions should only take an hour or two out of the day, just enough time for Gil to stretch his legs and give his eyes a break from those godforsaken reports before heading back and spending the rest of the day behind his desk.

Gil just smiles and tilts his face up to the sun, knowing damn well that Malcolm knows exactly why he's out there instead of one of his detectives. "Kid, there are only so many perfect days in the year and this is one of them. I'm not gonna spend the entirety of it at the precinct."

Malcolm huffs a laugh as they continue down the pier, soaking up the sun. The sky is shockingly blue, unmarred by even a single cloud, but the light breeze keeps the day from feeling too warm, even for Malcolm in his standard three piece suit.

"It _is_ nice to get out, isn't it?" Malcolm says, sidestepping to avoid a group of college-aged guys who seem like they're already a few beers in, though it's hardly after lunch.

Gil looks after them and shakes his head, and Malcolm can tell he's debating on calling out that they better not be operating one of the dozens of boats that surround them, but just purses his lips and lets them pass, relying on their better instincts to prevail.

"It's probably good for you to get out, too, city boy. Get a little colour on you." Gil reaches over and grips the back of Malcolm's neck, giving him a light squeeze to let him know he's just teasing, and soon they're at the slip where their witness's boat is docked.

The questions take less than a half hour and then they're walking back the way they came, Malcolm fitting the new puzzle pieces into the profile he's been building since the string of high-end home invasions was assigned to Major Crimes by the commissioner himself.

He's so distracted by his racing thoughts that the commotion on a nearby boat doesn't even register. At least, not until there's a stabbing pain in his thigh and he's flying off the pier into the water below.

A chorus of shouts assaults his ears for a fraction of a second before his head is submerged and the echoing nothingness of water becomes all he can hear. He doesn't fall far, though, an excruciating tug on his thigh keeping him from sinking too deep. 

Unfortunately, that pain in his leg is also somehow making it incredibly difficult to get his head above water.

It takes only a moment for Malcolm to assess the situation and discover the problem, though he's not entirely sure how he's supposed to fix it.

There's a piece of metal — a smallish spear — pierced through his thigh from front to back. He knows that's a problem in and of itself; it hurts like hell and there's a concerning amount of blood escaping the wound. But the more pressing problem is the fact that the spear seems to have embedded itself in the hull of a boat, about three inches above the waterline.

His thigh, therefore, is pinned above water, making it nearly impossible to keep himself upright. He's trapped on his side, and without the use of his legs, he can't kick to keep himself up. The water, thankfully, is calm, but it still laps up and covers his face as he strains to keep his head above water.

When he looks up, Gil is disarming one of the drunk — and now terrified — college kids as they rush from a nearby boat onto the dock, but Gil's attention is on Malcolm more than the weapon that he's ripped from the young man's hands. Even from where Malcolm is floundering in the water, he can see the look in Gil's eye that says he's already evaluated the situation and is about to make a move. 

"Bright! Hold on!" Gil shouts before directing a passing marina employee to dial 9-1-1 and leveling the group of boys with a furious look and growling, "Don't move." 

And then Gil is diving into the water and swimming the short distance to where Malcolm is trapped.

After a moment of hesitation, Gil gently grabs hold of Malcolm's shoulders and keeps them steady, tucking his own shoulder beneath Malcolm's head so he doesn't have to strain to keep his head up. It helps, but even the slight movement feels like a fresh wave of fire has ignited in his leg and Malcolm whimpers at the burning sensation that spreads through his nerves.

"Kid?" Gil says, worry dripping from the single word. "Shit, I'm sorry. How bad is it?"

Malcolm isn't sure if Gil means the injury itself or the pain, but either way it's not great.

"Well, it's n-not _good_ ," Malcolm huffs, the pain in his leg making his words come out more broken than he'd like. "But, I think he m-missed the artery."

He's pretty sure he'd already be dead if it hadn't, but considering the lukewarm temperature of the water versus just how cold he's already feeling, he thinks that blood loss is still an immediate concern. 

"W-what happened?" Malcolm asks, letting his eyes flutter closed and trusting Gil to keep his face safely above the waterline.

"Drunk kids playing with a spear gun," Gil growls and turns his head to look at the crowd of people on the dock above them, glaring at the kids. "The gun accidentally went off and you happened to be in its path."

Of course.

If it wasn't for bad luck he'd have no luck at all.

"Just hang in there, kid," Gil says and Malcolm can practically _feel_ him grimace at the choice of words as soon as they pass his lips. Oddly, it makes Malcolm feel a little better and he lets out a quiet chuckle, the puff of breath ruffling Gil's goatee as Malcolm opens his eyes and looks up at the man. "Sorry," Gil says sheepishly.

"It's fine," Malcolm says, but immediately flinches as the gentle waves — or perhaps a slight adjustment on Gil's part — jostles his leg and sends a fresh wave of agony sparking through his body.

He can already hear sirens approaching and tries to focus on his impending freedom and not the ache in his thigh that grows and spreads with every tiny movement.

It takes longer than he'd hoped to free him, and by the time they do, the pain is white hot and unbearable and, though he grits his teeth against it and the painkillers they inject him with do their best to dull the grinding ache of his nerves, he can't help the tears that stream down his cheeks. He also can't seem to keep his vision from fading to black as they haul him out of the water.

He comes to a short while later, the sway of the ambulance shaking him awake to find an IV flooding his system with much needed fluids to replace the blood he lost. Now that no one is touching his leg, the painkillers are able to do their job and leave him with little more than a dull but insistent ache in his thigh, so long as he doesn't try to move.

He looks up to find Gil next to him, looking harried and sopping wet, and Malcolm feels terrible about ruining the break from the office.

"It's not your fault, kid," Gil says with an almost amused smile. Malcolm wasn't aware he'd even spoken out loud. "Accidents happen."

It would be great if they stopped happening to him, Malcolm thinks to himself. Or rather, thinks he thinks it to himself.

Gil's answering chuckle says otherwise. "Yeah, Bright. That'd be great, alright."

Malcolm gives up thinking as a lost cause after that, surrendering himself to the pull of the painkillers, thankful that _this_ accident, at least, had a happy ending.


End file.
